The Treatment (5 page)

In private Rebecca would never talk about what had been done to her a year ago. Caffery had been there, had seen her close up, unconscious and displayed, suspended from a ceiling: a killer's bloody, valedictory exhibit. He
had sat patiently through her statement for the inquest of her dead flatmate, Joni Marsh, in a little hospital room in Lewisham. It had been a rainy day and the maple tree outside the window dripped steadily through the interview.

“Look, if you find this difficult …”

“No—no, it's not difficult.”

At that point he was already half in love with Rebecca. Seeing her bent head, those slender hands fidgeting in her lap as she tried to put it into words, tried to explain the indignity performed on her, he took pity and prompted her through the statement, broke every rule in the book to lessen the ordeal. Fed her what he knew so that all she had to do was nod. She remained shaken—in the inquest she cried during her testimony and couldn't start again, and eventually the coroner allowed her to step down from the witness stand. Even now, if Caffery tried to coax her into talking about it, she would pull up the drawbridge. Or, more infuriatingly, laugh and swear it hadn't affected her. In public, however, she used it almost as an accessory, like part of her wardrobe:

As long as the world thinks she's resilient, that's all she cares about.
He closed the magazine, rested his face for a moment on his crossed hands and tried not to think about her, tried not to think about Ewan and tried not to think about Rory. Out of the window, beyond his bowed head, London's midnight lights sparkled like luminous-spined sea creatures.

“Coffee?”

He jerked a little where he lay. Opened his eyes. “Marilyn?”

Marilyn Kryotos, the manager—the “receiver”—of the cumbersome HOLMES murder database, stood in the doorway staring at him. She wore pink lipstick and a navy-blue dress, one lapel pinned with a mother-of-pearl brooch in the shape of a bunny. “Did you
sleep
here?” She sounded half impressed, half disgusted. “In the office?”

“OK, OK.” He straightened from the desk, pressing knuckles into his eyes. It was a little before dawn and the night was pink around the bottom of the Croydon skyscrapers. A fly floated feet up in the mug of scotch. He checked his watch.

“You're early.”

“First light. Half the team are here already. Danni's on her way to Brixton.”

“Fuck.” He groped for his tie.

“Do you want a comb?”

“No, no.”

“You need one.”

“I know.”

He went to the twenty-four-hour filling station opposite the office, bought a sandwich, a comb, a toothbrush, and hurried back, past the area maps lining the corridor, stopping to pick up the spare shirt he kept in the exhibits room. In the men's he stripped off his shirt, splashed water across his chest, under his arms, and bent to put his face under the tap, wet his hair, then went to the air dryer, lifting his arms, pushing his head under it to dry his hair. He knew he was in the silent eye of the storm. He knew that as the country woke, as televisions came on and the news spread, the incident-room phone would begin to ring. Meanwhile there was red tape to wade through, community-impact assessment meetings to be arranged with the borough commander, and case reviews to think about. The stopwatch had started and he had to be ready.

“Did you get that thing about Rebecca?” Kryotos stood in the incident room, holding a coffee mug and a cake tin.

“The
Time Out
, you mean?” He took the coffee and together they went back into the SIOs' room.

“She looked lovely in it, didn't she?”

“She did.” He put the coffee on the desk and picked up the new murder manual—the blue-and-white loose-leaf file that had appeared on the windowsill of every police station since the Lawrence inquiry—and leafed through it, running down a mental checklist of all the tasks he should complete today.

“I called the hospital,” Kryotos said. “Alek Peach made it through the night.”

“Seriously?” He looked up. “Can he talk?”

“No. He's still got that tube thingy down his throat, but he's stable.”

“And Carmel?”

“Came out of her sedation and she's busy getting herself discharged.”

“Jesus, I wasn't expecting that.”

“Relax. There's an officer with her. She's going to a friend's.”

“OK. Speak to the uniform and tell him to call when she's settled.”

“
Her
. It's a WPC.”

“Her. Tell her to call when Carmel's settled and say I'll be on my way, and then, Marilyn, can you get a Quest Search off to Hendon for me?”

“Yup.” She put down the tin, found a pen in his desk, sat down in Souness's chair and jotted down the key search words he gave her. “Abduction,” “intruder,” “handcuff,” and “child,” with an age range of five to ten. He didn't have to be careful what he said to Kryotos—she was probably the most level-headed member of the team. No matter what the crime, she handled the details that passed through her hands with a calmness he sometimes envied.

“Is that it?”

“No.” He thought for a moment, closing the murder manual and putting it back on the windowsill. “Let's see, ‘sex offenders. ’ Include that, OK? And do the usual check of the nonce register.”

“Right.” She recapped the pen, pushed herself to her feet and picked up the tin. She paused, smiling at his hair, which was still slightly rumpled. If anyone suggested she
had an unprofessional fondness for DI Jack Caffery, who was two years her junior
anyway
, she would develop a high color and abracadabra a healthy marriage out of her hat with two robust children, Dean and Jenna—proof that she and Jack Caffery were colleagues and friends and
nothing more
. The only person utterly convinced by her argument was Caffery himself. “Banana bread.” She tapped the lid of the tin. “Me and Dean made it. I know it sounds a bit bonkers but you can stick it in the toaster, put some butter on it and, oh, God, even though I say it myself, it is to
die
for.”

“Marilyn, thanks, but—”

“But you'll get your own breakfast? Something not so
sweeeet
?”

He smiled. “I'm sorry.”

“You do know, of course, that other people are falling all over themselves for my banana cake?”

“Marilyn, I don't doubt that for a moment.”

“You wait, Jack.” She lifted the tin on one palm like a waiter and turned for the door, her nose in the air. “One of these days I'll break you.”

M
RS. NERSESSIAN'S HOUSE
, with its modern leaded windows and carefully painted wagon wheel on the front wall, gleamed like a polished stone. It took her several minutes to unlatch all the chains on the front door. Caffery realized that he must have had a vague image of the person who would be Carmel Peach's friend, and it wasn't Bela Nersessian: she was a short, red-haired woman—sepia skin, long earrings, ruched black blouse embellished with gold necklaces. As soon as she saw Caf-fery's warrant card she gripped his wrist with varnished fingernails and pulled him into the house.

“She's in the bedroom, the poor love, having some quiet time. Come on.” She beckoned him. “Come with me.”

They went upstairs, past framed family photographs, four pictures of the Virgin Mary in mother-of-pearl frames, a glass chandelier pinging with cleanliness. Bela Nersessian went slowly, clutching the banister and turning slightly sideways in her tight knee-length skirt. Every few steps a new thought came to her and she would pause and turn to him. “Now, if I was the police I'd be searching those lakes in the park.” Or: “I've had an idea. Before you leave we'll say a little prayer for Rory, Mr. Caffery. Shall we do that?”

On the top landing Mrs. Nersessian switched on a
small crystal-based lamp, plumped up a yellow silk cushion on a small chair, then stood at the bedroom door, smoothing her blouse and taking a deep breath.

She knocked on the door. “Someone to see you, Carmel, lovey.” She pushed open the door and stuck her nose inside. “There you are, love. I've got someone to see you, OK.” She stepped back out of the room and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Caffery's ear: “Tell her I'm praying, darling, tell her we're all praying for Rory.”

The bedroom smelled of perfume and smoke. It was full of pink satin—on the bed, the radiator, the dressing table—like the inside of a jewelry box. The room was at the back of the house: had the curtains been open the park would have been visible, but maybe the neat little WPC sitting on a pink chair near the window, her hands crossed on her lap, had worried about Carmel seeing the park, because the curtains were firmly closed.

When the WPC saw Caffery she half stood—“Sir”— and sat down, nodding at the bed. On the bed, facing away from the door, wearing a large T-shirt with a 1998 World Cup motif on the back and a pair of white leggings, lay Carmel Peach, a raw-skinned woman with thin limbs and chapped red arms. In front of her rested a packet of Superkings, a lighter and a crystal ashtray. He couldn't see her face but he could see that both her wrists were bandaged: Carmel Peach, everyone knew, had tried hard to pull her own hands off in order to escape from the handcuffs and reach her son.

He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment.
You've been here before, Jack, haven't you?
He remembered standing uselessly in the doorway while his mother lay on the bed and cried her heart out for Ewan.
And if she thinks about you at all it's only to wish that you'd piss off.

“You're the CID, aren't you?” She didn't turn to look at him.

“Yes. I'm with AMIT. Do you feel better now?”

She stared resolutely at the curtains. “Have you—you know?”

“Mrs. Peach—”

She lifted her hands briefly as if to stop him from speaking, then subsided. “Just tell it to me straight.”

“I'm sorry.” He looked around the room, shaking his head for the benefit of the WPC, glad Carmel couldn't see his face. “I'm sorry. There's no news yet.”

She didn't respond at first. Her bare feet stiffened briefly, but that was all. Then, just as he was about to continue, she suddenly, violently jackknifed her body on the bed and hammered fists into her stomach, groaning and writhing, rucking the cover into pleats. The WPC stepped forward. “It's all right, Carmel love, it's all right.” She gently caught Carmel's hands and stroked the backs of them with her thumbs. “There we go. There we go.” Slowly Carmel became still. “There we go. We know you're upset, but you don't want to hurt yourself, too, do you, love?”

The WPC looked up at Caffery, who stood in the doorway, appalled, rooted to the spot. He should have stepped forward, should have grabbed Carmel's hands like that, but all he could do was remember—
stop thinking about it
—remember his mother biting her arms as the police searched Penderecki's old house across the tracks, actually chewing her own arms to relieve what was inside. He realized he was as helpless now as he had been then to deal with female grief.

The WPC sat down and Carmel subsided. She seemed to be concentrating on her breathing for she took four deep breaths, wiped her forehead and shook her head.

“And Alek? What about
Alek
?”

“I—he's—he's still at King's. They're doing everything they can for him.”

“But they can't save him.”

“Look, Carmel, I would be failing in my duty if I didn't advise you to expect the worst.”

“Oh, just
shut up
—for fuck's sake,
shut up
, can't you?” She put her face in her hands. “Get the doctor back,” she demanded. “Get him to give me something more. Look at me, for fuck's sake, I need something stronger than what he's given me.”

“Mrs. Peach, I know it's difficult for you. But it's
important that you tell us everything you can remember. As soon as I've taken an initial statement from you I'll get your GP back.”